


My unfinished symphony (forever unfinished)

by justpressX



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Explosions, Gen, I hope, POV First Person, POV Wilbur Soot, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), l'manberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29286165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justpressX/pseuds/justpressX
Summary: You've heard of L'manberg. Of course you have. You know of us. Of this great country, as Schlatt would have said.But, who's Schlatt? We'll get to that in a second. For now, all you need to know is that there was once a special place. A pretty big and not blown-up place.L'manberg lives on in our hearts.November 16. The day of rebellion, and the war. The day of glory, and death.Our nation's fall had begun long before that. In times now forgotten, that we whisper in the dying light. A traitor and a massacre. An election, an exile, an escape.Fireworks. A flag. Of freedom, gone wrong.Let us begin the tale.Or: Wilbur reflects on November 16.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Kudos: 1





	My unfinished symphony (forever unfinished)

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing 1st person POV pog? Look I'm in pain so you should be too :)

You've heard of L'manberg. Of course you have. You know of us. Of this great country, as Schlatt would have said. 

But, who's Schlatt? We'll get to that in a second. For now, all you need to know is that there was once a special place. A pretty big and not blown-up place.

L'manberg lives on in our hearts. 

November 16. The day of rebellion, and the war. The day of glory, and death.

Our nation's fall had begun long before that. In times now forgotten, that we whisper in the dying light. A traitor and a massacre. An election, an exile, an escape. 

Fireworks. A flag. Of freedom, gone wrong. 

Let us begin the tale.

\---

November 16, as I have said.

A rag-tag bunch of heroes clashed against the misunderstood villains in the centre of the nation. With the latter were the mercenaries, shields against arrows and swords against axes. 

For the sake of anonymity, I will not use their names. Just know that I am Wilbur – or Wil, but you don't get to call me that. (No one gets to, not anymore.)

Amongst their fighting, one realised their target was missing. A search, over a hasty and temporary truce, revealed the president in a scratched, battered van. The paint had begun to flake, crumbling as they pushed open the doors. 

The interior was no better, dusty and barely lit. The rebels and defenders clustered around a man on the ground. This man was the president, and he was drunk, an empty bottle in his grasp. 

They had no idea what was going to happen, pushing their way into the cramped van and yelling as they took in the sight. 

Then, a volley of words was exchanged. In a fit of anger, the president swung out, and glass struck the wall next to one of his men, barely missing him. 

Tensions were running high; crossbows were raised, swords were drawn, and the vice president rummaged through the wrecked cabinets in search of understanding. 

They say death comes in many forms; quick, painless, agonising, eternal. The president suffered, but his death was swift. 

A cough, and a gasp, and Schlatt was gone. 

\---

Let it be known that the war, if it could be called that, was not about the president. Not completely, at least. 

The rebels wanted their independent nation back, and, of course, they wanted the tyrant the nation called president gone. But they also wanted revenge, and that did not stop at the president. 

What about their burnt flag? The disrespect of being exiled? The walls, the public execution, the oppression of their members? Those didn't end with the president, even if he was behind them. A particular man, one many were quick to thank and even quicker to turn on, who had always been transparent and yet called a liar and a traitor, wanted even more than that. 

And the president's men. They weren't serving the president. Let it be known that they didn't serve the president. 

They served their country, and no rebel can tear that from them. 

They wanted an organised and safe nation, that could grow and rebuild and improve and weather every storm that came their way. 

And yes, these two can coexist. Violence and bloodshed, while an efficient and effective solution, isn't the path one should go down. 

Then there were the mercenaries. They had their own morals, but I will not pretend to understand them. As of then, those particular people were on the president's side. 

The two opposing groups – though it seems unfair to group them as thus – were endlessly interconnected. They were there that day. 

And where did I stand, you ask?

Oh, I wasn't on either side.

Maybe I should be starting from the beginning, but if there's one thing I've learnt, it's that nothing is that simple. 

\--

When all this fighting was going on – and it didn't end after the president – I had already left them.

I was in a dark and cramped tunnel. The wavering flames of a torch could only go so far in lighting the way when the walls are stone and the ground is gravel crunching under boots. 

I know where it led. Sure enough, the passage opened into a small room, brighter thanks to the glow of the crystals in the walls, but equally empty. Its furnishings were simple: a table, half-buried in the corner; some signs, the words faded and barely there; and a button on the wall. 

I still remember what the signs said. Our fair anthem, never to be sung again. Its melody filled the room silently, weaving around the air of dread. 

And the button. A simple, wooden button, placed on the wall. 

I know where it led. I'd spent hours planting each and every one of them, burying them until they were needed. The button was the key to everything, the final reset button, for a L'manberg that's worth saving. 

After all, this one wasn't anymore. 

When the button is pressed – and it will be – the war will be over. Not forever, of course, but long enough to be worth the shot.

\---

Do you want to know a secret?

I helped the rebels. In this war, in all its retellings, I stood on their side. Their leader. I got them help; the mercenaries could always be bought, for a price. 

To be honest, the destruction I had initially planned wasn't that big. But I went back, and went over my plans, and went through and over so, so many thoughts, and I decided.

That was not enough. And I knew someone who was more than happy to help. More TNT, more help for the rebels, more help for me, just for the promise to set this all right. How could I say no? 

After all, it was never meant to be. 

\---

The fighting is still ongoing, but it'll cease soon. 

I stare at the button in front of me. The button stares back unflinchingly. I know what pressing it will do. The pros and the cons; I've spent countless nights debating this. 

But in the end, there is a saying. One said by a traitor.

Do you remember it?

\---  
The melody is louder now. It builds and it grows and it swells in volume. I know it so well. 

L'manberg, my unfinished symphony. Forever unfinished, I had said. I was willing to go down with this nation. I am still willing to. 

And so I pushed the button, even as a voice called out behind me. 

There were multiple screams and booms, too muffled. The song, the unfinished, incomplete song, was the only thing I heard clearly. 

It was silent, and there were feathers around me. Foolish as it seems, my first thought was that it was an angel. 

It was, just not of the ethereal type.

"Oh my god. Wil! It's all gone!" He had yelled. The sword in my hands, its weight holding me down since the start, was for him. 

I passed it to him. 

"Kill me, Phil, kill me." I had said. The sword gleamed in his hands. I know he hesitated, and I know I was selfish, and cowardly, and a liar, and so I know that I deserved my death. 

Just like L'manberg deserved its, twice.

It was just never meant to be.


End file.
